


Where's My Love

by runnyc33



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runnyc33/pseuds/runnyc33
Summary: There’s nothing more stressful than watching your favorite person in the world teeter on the edge of destruction.





	Where's My Love

Scott swears the silver medal around his neck is heavier than its reported 525 grams. It hangs like a chain around him, the deadweight pulling on his neck, hunching his shoulders, shrinking him in size. When the silver flashes in the light, he’s reminded, over and over, of their fights, with Tessa urging him, insistently, quietly, so certain that Marina’s allegiances had changed, that the ISU had soured, that Sochi would go badly, and Scott, emotion clouding his vision, yelling back at her, convinced it never could.

He bites his lip hard between press conferences, the iron taste of blood flooding his senses, to keep himself from screaming about the injustice of it all - that the reality of hard work and sacrifice isn’t enough, not when the ISU can fuck you over with a score you didn’t deserve, when the narrative was written before you ever landed in Russia.

He holds it together, more or less, until he’s back home on Canadian soil. But faced with the bitter reality of retirement, he breaks. He seeks solace in the burn of a shot, the bubbles of a beer.  Alcohol has always been a vice of his, but now it’s a need, primal, compulsive.

Scott’s been able to hide it well from nearly everyone, laying low by shifting bars and changing drinking buddies.  But Tessa knows immediately. She’s the number bartenders call on his phone, the only one he’ll allow to pick him up. Tessa always comes and takes him home to her place or his. And it’s not uncommon that he cries, on his knees, arms wrapped around her, sobs about how all he ever wanted was to give her a second gold medal, and he fucked it up. After she calms him, he crashes hard, a deep alcohol-induced sleep.

When he wakes, he whispers his apologies in the soft morning light against her lips, against her skin, against her pussy, taking her apart an orgasm at a time, before he leaves for “just one beer with the boys”, and the cycle never ends.

While Scott sleeps or when Scott leaves, Tessa smokes.  It’s a disgusting habit - picked up in the halls of Canton, among skaters desperate to lose weight - and a habit that she shoves off, for the most part. But when she’s stressed, she finds comfort in the repetitive drags of a cigarette.

And there’s nothing more stressful than watching your favorite person in the world teeter on the edge of destruction. 

So she throws herself, head over heels, into trying to rescue Scott from the brink, with the same disregard for her own pain that she displayed when her shins burned. Tessa answers every bar’s phone call, listens to each drunken rant, endures his frustrations when she tries to explain how much he’s scaring her, puts him to bed - and then she’s outside, a lit cigarette in hand, taking comfort in this small routine, trying to calm the racing of her heart. 

Tessa runs from her problems - literally, she runs for hours a day, her calves burning until her feet go numb, until she can’t feel the ground below her, and she keeps running.  It’s immensely easier to run through this physical pain than it is to face the enormous pain that she’s losing Scott.

When she returns from a run, legs burning from two hours of self-inflicted pain, there’s already a glass of cold ice water on the counter, a couple of Advil next to it, and her favorite meal staying warm in the oven. Underneath it all, she knows he’s still Scott. But he’s gone, of course - already out at the bar, already three beers in.

So Tessa runs, and she smokes, and she barely sleeps, waiting for another bar to call her to pick up another version of Scott. 

Scott yells more now.  He yells that he doesn’t need her, that she’s just a kiddo (dripping with insult, the nickname is forever poisoned for her), that he’s a grown man who doesn’t need to be babysat. He fucks her, hard and fast, grunting the words out, “This is what a man feels like, you know.  And I can feel you getting off on this.” Tessa always moans. “Does it make you feel good to be fucked so hard?” He pulls her closer, hands rough on her hips, and Tessa pushes back into him, eagerly, and after they both come, he collapses, spent, and she retires to the patio to smoke.

He wakes her in the morning, plate piled high with waffles, and they watch Funny Face, and it feels normal and comfortable and real, and the only memories she has of yesterday are the dull aches in her muscles.

It’s messy.  For a while, it works - well, it doesn’t work, but it functions - and it’s enough to know he’s safe and alive and she’ll take it, the anger, the hurt, everything, she’ll absorb it.  She even likes the fucking, likes feeling wanted. But what she cherishes are the moments that bring her back to a time before this - a time before heartache. She cherishes the moments where they curl around each other, giggling over inside jokes that have stood the test of time.  These are the moments that make her feel that her Scott is still there - she can reach out, and he’s right there. 

It’s dizzying, really, for Tessa to keep track of the Scotts in her mind.  The Scott that holds her when she cries at the ASPCA commercial versus the Scott that yells at her drunk out of his mind.  The Scott that kisses her softly and says he’s never seen anyone more beautiful versus the Scott that pulls her hair as she gasps, all sharp edges and control, domineering in a way that makes her wet.

She pushes it all down.

Until one night, one fight, Scott’s yelling at her, trying to provoke her, and Tessa just snaps.  One small moment of rage, stepping into his face, hot, angry, bothered, yelling, “If you had just fucking LISTENED to me then, if you just listened now, if you would just stop being an idiot for one fucking second --” before he snaps back at her, his voice deadly even, their noses almost touching.

“Or maybe if I had gotten a new partner when your legs stopped working, maybe then I would have brought home those two gold medals for Canada.”

And she reels. 

There’s a moment of self-satisfaction in his face, before it shatters into dismay.  He’s reaching out for her, but she flinches away - she’s never flinched away from his touch before, but it’s like he’s hit her, the force of it.  Scott’s mouth is open wide in shock, looking at his hands and then at her, like he can’t believe what just happened. 

Neither can she.  He’s about to open his mouth, but Tessa cuts him off, holds up one finger.  “No.” Her face is steeled, and her voice does not quaver when she speaks the word.

He makes a small move towards her again. “No, don’t you dare, Scott.”  She turns and walks from the room, silently, willing herself not to run, into her bedroom, and he hears as she turns the lock on the door.

He doesn’t hear when she sinks to the floor, shaky exhales and choking sobs, her arms curled around her legs. 

In the morning, she calls Western University over her coffee and oatmeal and accepts their offer to study, and when Scott wakes from his drunken sleep on the couch, she informs him coolly.  It’s her time, she explains. She’s going to attend Western University and she’s going to have her shot at a real university experience, and that’s that.

The next week she’s gone.

Scott is lost for a long two months, floating from couch to couch. He doesn’t stay long in one place, but his behavior doesn’t go unnoticed.  His buddies try to find ways to bring it up, but he laughs it off - this is just a chance to have all the beers he missed during training! - and while he can tell it’s not enough to completely cure their worries, it seems to placate them that this is temporary.

He doesn’t know how to explain to someone that he drinks because he can’t get Tessa’s eyes from that night out of his mind.  Scott thought she had loathed him after Sochi, that she would blame him for the loss. He realizes she never did - she never once resented him, never once hated him - until that moment. 

The loathing she felt then, that was real.  That was sixteen years of partnership, thrown away for pure shock value.

So he looks down at the clear liquor in a shot glass, and he hopes that if he throws back this one, he can forget those eyes.

He keeps drinking, keeps trying to forget, and keeps failing spectacularly.

The arrival of spring throws him into a tailspin. Nature exists just to torment him, he swears, because all around him he catches glimpses of leaves and bushes that are exactly the right color of green.  Each time, it sends him reeling. Today, it’s the dogwood planted at the edge of the park. He ducks into a liquor store, buys the cheapest bottle they have, and heads home.

Pouring himself a shot, he settles on the couch, turns on Sports Network, and yells at the TV.  For every bad call by the refs, he takes a shot, and the refs fucking suck.

Before long, he’s truly hammered, and his throat is dry. He needs a glass of water as soon as possible, so he takes the handle in his lap - he’d resorted to long swigs from the bottle directly when pouring into that tiny _tiny_ shot glass got too hard - and tries to put it on the table.  Scott swears the table moves on him, because there’s a crash that echoes through the apartment, and suddenly liquid and glass is everywhere, only the remnants of the handle left in his hand. 

Staggering, he heads to the kitchen to grab a towel, an attempt to soak up the mess.  It’s… a passable job. There’s definitely some liquor left, but it’s fine, it’ll dry. He ducks to see whether any of it has traveled under the couch.  None has, but there’s something else under there. He grabs at it and pulls it out.

It’s a purple shirt, a large Adidas logo splayed across it - so quintessentially hers.  He remembers the last time he saw it, which must’ve been when Tessa lost it too - she had collected him from a bar and brought him to his apartment rather than hers, and crashed on the couch.  It was during his apologetic phase, and he had woken her by yanking the loose neckline to the side, biting and sucking just above her collarbone, at the base of her neck, leaving his mark, soothing it with a tender kiss, before yanking the shirt over her head.  It must’ve fallen between the couch and the end table, he realizes, and he hasn’t been much for cleaning lately.

He brings it to his nose.  Fuck, it still smells like her.  Tears in his eyes, heart aching, he walks to his bedroom and curls up on the bed, nose still buried in the shirt.  He falls asleep with her smell surrounding him and her name on the tip of his tongue.

He stirs, and before his eyes open, there’s a moment his heart skips a beat, the scent of her filling his nostrils, leaving him high off vanilla and strawberry.  He reaches for her, to pull her closer - but there’s nothing there.

Opening his eyes, he sees the purple shirt on his pillow, and oh - it comes back with a rush, and tears well in his eyes. 

He shuffles through his normal morning routine, repeatedly gazing at the shirt from the bathroom doorway - he’s folded it, a force of habit from years of Tessa complaining about how he treated her things.  Before heading to the kitchen for coffee, he grabs it, carrying it with him, but he won’t lift it to his nose, afraid he’ll lose control. 

It’s at the opposite end of the table, and Scott sits with his mug, examining it.

Scott knows he doesn’t deserve Tessa, he knows if he were a better man he’d set her free to leave her mark on the world.  But he can’t function without her, and maybe he can’t function with her, but he wants to try. He’s willing to put in the time and the effort, and he just wants to try with her hand in his.  His world is just a little brighter, a little easier, a little better with her there. 

He rises from the table and grabs his laptop.  With one last look at the shirt, he opens his email and reaches out to Mike Babcock to ask if he knows of any therapists trained to work with post-Olympic athletes.  The reply is quick - “Call this number and ask for Dr. Wilson. Mention my name. She’s expensive, and worth it.” Below the signature, it reads, “I’m proud of you.”

He picks up the phone, and dials the number.  Immediately after scheduling the first appointment for two days from now - the name drop working like a charm - he walks through the house, gathering up all the half consumed bottles of liquor.  Slowly, methodically, he pours each bottle down the drain, determination across his face, standing a little taller as the pile of empty bottles grows. 

Over a piece of toast, Scott plans their reunion. 

.......... 

Scott shows up on her doorstep, in the rain - he waited for a rainy day, couldn’t resist the dramatics of the image, plucked straight from any of his favorite romantic comedies.  He knocks on the door, and it swings open immediately. Tessa’s standing there in front of him, in a pair of black shorts and a sweatshirt, taking in the sight of him on her porch - sad, drenched, with a wilted bouquet of blue and white flowers in hand. 

For a moment, they just stare.  He sees when she realizes he’s sober, her eyes widening, ever so slightly. Her body launches into forward motion, throwing herself into his arms, as a sob is escapes from her throat.  The flowers hit the ground with a faint rustle as he drops them to ensure his hands are free to catch her, second nature from years on the ice. Even if he’s a little weaker now, a little out of practice, he’d never let her fall.  She wraps herself around him, legs tight on his waist, arms curled around his neck, fingers tangled in his long hair. Her quiet whispers and murmurs surround them; it’s nonsense, but he catches a few words: “Scott” and “sober” and “scared me so much” and “missed you”.  He shushes her, but she doesn’t seem able to stop. They’re both getting soaked now, on her porch, so he carries her inside, nudging the door shut behind him with his foot.

His eyes wander around her living space, catching the details - or the lack of them.  No flowers, no pictures, no decorative pillows. Tessa’s tastes have always been white and bright with purposefully curated accents, but the furniture in here is dark, the lights dimmed, and there’s not a single photo of them or her or her family and friends anywhere.  There’s no indication Tessa should live here.

Gently, he places her on the kitchen counter (spotless, unused, finally a sign it’s her place).  Her arms are still tight around him as her body shakes with cries. Trying to soothe her, he runs his hands over her back.  A few times, he tries to pull away just slightly, wanting to look into her eyes and wipe the tears from her cheeks. But her hands are desperate, clawing at him to stay close.

It’s the most broken and desperate he’s ever seen Tessa.  Worse than during their therapy session after the first surgery when she explained in precise, unwavering detail exactly how abandoned she felt by his lack of communication.  Worse than before the second surgery when she mourned her skating career and his too, assuming that she was going to struggle through the pain and hard recovery only for it not to work, for her to let Scott down and to let Canada down.  Worse than when Scott had listened to Tessa’s confessions of guilt after her parents announced they were divorcing, certain it was her fault due to the countless overheard arguments over money and time and Canton and surgeries. 

His breath staggers, she’s broken _because_ of him.  This is his fault.  He resolves that the least he can do is hold on tight to her.  It won't be clean, and it won't be easy, and god, he longs for a beer right the fuck now, but he'll hold on to Tessa tight, and it'll be enough.  He hopes.

Scott knows when she shifts from despair to resignation.  He knows that sigh. It's her it's-time-to-get-down-to-it-and-I-don't-like-it sigh.  He feels her shift in his arms and his heart is breaking, because any moment she'll come up for air and realize he's not the one she wants.  She’ll yell and kick him out and he'll never see her again, he’ll never see this incredible woman again. So Scott decides when he finally, finally sees her face, he'll commit it to memory forever, so he can never lose it. 

He does.  The moment green meet hazel, he remembers everything.

The air stills, the silence settles down around them.  This moment - it could linger for a split second or an hour, there's no way to be sure.  All he knows is this is real and it's the most alive he’s felt since before he watched Meryl and Charlie receive their scores and knew they were a heartbreaking second. 

The spell is broken by a clap of thunder - sonorous, rumbling, and completely unexpected.

Tessa jumps slightly and looks down and Scott swears he hears her curse, a small _fuck_ falling from her lips.  When she doesn’t look back up, gently, as though she might break, he takes her chin in his hand and guides her face upwards to meet his gaze.

There's a flash in her eyes this time, when their eyes meet, and it's surprise, Scott notes, as though she's astonished he's still here. Her hands flutters over his chest, his shoulders, just centimeters from touching his shirt, as though he's not solid, as though he could disintegrate if she touches him wrong.

Scott gently takes her hands and places them over his heart, so they can feel the rise of his chest with each breath, the beat of his heart.  Tessa stares at her hands and then up at him and back to his hands again. She’s so innocent, so small, and so wonderful, he tips forward and captures her lips in a kiss - barely one, just fleeting, just a promise, nothing like the bruising kisses of anger and hurt and jealousy they've traded before. 

Tessa’s the one who pushes it further, crashing their lips together, slipping her tongue into his mouth, sucking his bottom lips between her teeth and pulling, as she reaches for his belt buckle.

Scott tries to capture her hands, tries to push her back, but she whimpers - _Tessa Virtue just whimpered_ \- and whispers, "I need this, please, I need this so much,” and when she sounds that raw, well, Scott can’t tell her no.

So he lets her undo his belt buckle, and he lets her slide down the zipper on his jeans, and he lets her shove her hand in his boxer briefs.  He lets her grab his cock, an embarrassing groan escaping at the feeling of her fingertips swirling the top of his head and his knuckles turning white against the counter when she strokes along his length, once, twice, her grip firm.  He lets her continue, taking him closer to the edge, but when she pulls off the shorts she’s wearing and begins to guide him to her center, he steps back.

“Tessa.”  The word is loaded.

“Scott.”  She moves to pull him closer again, but he shuffles out of reach.

“We should talk.”

“I don’t want to talk,” she replies, as she hops off the counter. She turns to the dishes in her sink, starts washing them, one by one. She flinches when he touches her back.

“Tessa, look at me.”  The words are soft, inviting, but she won’t turn.  “Tessa, please.” She’s shaking her head. “Tessa, it’s me.  Please just turn around.”

When Tessa turns, he watches as the scene in front of her becomes clear - Scott, half hard still, his jeans barely shoved down his thighs, breathing hard in the middle of her apartment - and he honestly can’t blame her when she starts to laugh.  Because this is outrageous, and if he weren’t so messed up, he’d laugh too. He shoves himself back in his pants and pulls up the zipper. “Tessa, talk to me, come on T.”

Her laughter trails off.  “Scott, what the hell are you doing here?”

This is the Tessa he’s been waiting for.  Hard angles, pragmatic, insistent, and drop dead gorgeous.

He motions to the couch.  “That’s a long story, and you deserve all the details.”  

She gestures for him to sit first, before perching at the far side of the couch - _well played, Tessa_ \- and she stares at him with an intense look.  He breaks immediately. “I fucked up. I’ve been sober for twenty days now.  I’m seeing a therapist twice a week. I’m trying.” 

She swallows hard, her eyes flickering away for a fraction of a second before meeting his again.  The green is darker now.

“I am incredibly sorry.  But I know you probably aren’t ready to forgive me, and may never be.  So really I’m here to say thank you. I’m here because you cared for me and loved me.  I have no doubt I’m alive today because you brought me home, fed me, and gave me water to drink.  Thank you for your grace and your selflessness.” His voice drops, into the apology that matters the most for him, for the words he should never have said.  “And thank you for skating with me for sixteen wonderful years. The best moments of my life have been on the ice with you.”

Her eyes fill with tears.  He knows that, as terrible as his drinking was, the thing that caused her to run was his words about her legs, flung out in the worst moment of weakness.  He longs to reach out for her, but he knows it’s up to her, that she doesn’t belong to him like that anymore.

So he keeps speaking, filling her in on the realizations he’s made in therapy, just trying to stay present with her.  He feels her move closer, opening up to him a little more with each word that spills from his mouth. He knows it’s not necessarily anything, but he thinks maybe… and her hand reaches for his, and he lets her wrap her fingers around his before he even thinks of closing his hand.

He pauses then.  “I’ve talked a lot.  And I can talk more, but… Is there anything you want to say to me?”

Tessa just shakes her head, but he watches the tears flow, and he knows she’s gathering her strength to speak.  She’s shifted closer throughout his confession, and they’re sitting side by side, so he sees when she takes a shaky breath to talk.  “I thought you were gone. I knew you were alive - made your brothers swear they’d call me if… - but I thought you, the Scott I knew, was gone.”  A deep breath, ragged on the edges, to calm herself down. She shifts closer, straddling his lap. Her fingers trace the lines of his face. It’s like she’s memorizing him, categorizing every detail.  “You were gone, and I didn’t sleep, and I just wanted you back. I see traces of you everywhere, but you were gone and I thought I would never get you back.”

“You didn’t sleep?”  She shakes her head. “When was the last time you got a real night’s sleep?”  She thinks about it, hard, and after thirty seconds, he cuts in. “If you have to think that hard about it, it’s been too long… why?"

She shrugs, but he nudges her.  Her eyes meet his. “I didn’t want to miss the call.”

His breath catches, and his heart breaks anew, for this woman who, after everything, sacrificed it all. 

He leans forward, gives her a small kiss on her forehead.  “Will you please sleep tonight?”

Her voice drops.  “Will you… stay?” He nods and she gets up, leads him into her bedroom - more dark wood, dark sheets, he notes - and into her bed.  Scott lays down first, sitting up against the headboard, and she curls her body around his. Absentmindedly, his hands stroke her hair as he murmurs quietly, nonsense about his brothers’ kids, dumb stories from their childhood, and he feels as her breathing evens out on his chest.

Innocence spreads across Tessa’s face in sleep.  God, he never deserved this woman, and they have so far to go, but maybe, just maybe, they have what it takes to claw their way out of this.

With that hope on his mind, Scott slides his hand into hers, and closes his eyes, allows sleep to come to him too.

..........

He blinks his eyes awake.  His neck hurts, he’s leaning up against something hard.  Blearily, he opens his eyes, reaches for the warmth of Tessa’s body and finds… a purple shirt.  A woman’s purple shirt, Tessa’s shirt. He brings it to his nose, but it’s soaked with alcohol and losing her smell with every moment that passes.

As he puts his hand on the floor to stand, a shard of glass cuts into his palm.  Clutching his hand to his chest, he looks around and sees only his living room, dark furniture, dimmed, with no photos or accents - and Scott reels, dizzy, confused, longing.

He wants her back. 

He picks up the phone.  

The line rings.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to @janizms (tumblr)/@jlhd (ao3) and @virtueoso (tumblr/ao3) for beta-ing the fuck out of this.
> 
> Shout out, as always, to the GLGC.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at @bivirtuealone if you’d like.


End file.
